Chess Pieces
by Jackdaw King Azrael
Summary: Alone one night, Charles ponders the future. Post First Class.


A/N: This just a little something I thought of while watching First Class. It takes place about five months after the end. Hope you like it.

**Chess Pieces**

It was half past midnight.

Professor Charles Xavier sat alone in his study. The fireplace roared with a comforting blaze, warding off the chill of the Westchester winter. But no amount of flame, not even a holocaust, could warm the chill he felt in his very bones.

_Holocaust_. The word was almost fitting, considering his thoughts.

Charles had parked his wheelchair in front of the coffee table, the very same table that he and Erik had played their last game upon, before that fateful day. The chess set was still there, all the pieces at the ready. But all else seemed different. There was no glass of scotch on his side of the board; he hadn't touched a drop since losing his legs. He was unable to leave under his own power. And, worst of all it felt, Erik was not across from him.

He missed his friend. Though on the beach Charles had firmly asserted that he and Erik did not want the same thing, deep down he new that was wrong. They both wanted the safety of mutant-kind, but it ended there. Charles wanted to foster peace and understanding, creating a world where humans and mutants could live in harmony, without hatred and violence. Erik, having witnessed the genocide wrought upon his people and others by the Nazis, would take no such chance. Even now it seemed, he was forging his own army to liberate his new people from human oppression.

As Charles stared at the chessboard, his eyes studying the black pieces, he could almost see them. The first recruits of Erik's "Brotherhood."

Angel Salvatore. Oh, that poor girl. First she had followed him and Erik to the CIA, then she was seduced by promises of power and freedom by Shaw. Now she had thrown in her lot with Erik once more. She was most certainly his Pawn.

Janos Quested, who called himself Riptide. A man of few words, it seemed, but powerful actions. His powers were solid and strong, able to attack and defend in equal measure. He, it seemed, would serve as Erik's Rook.

Azazel. The devilish teleporter. Striking and fading, he was misdirection made flesh. Using his long blades and his ever-moving tail, he was a flurry of unstoppable might. With his unorthodox approach and vicious intent, Charles had no doubt that he would serve Erik well as his Knight.

Raven Darkholme...Mystique now, he imagined. Though Hank had managed to cobble together a new Cerebro below the mansion, Charles couldn't bear to search for his prodigal sister. He had promised her that he would never read her mind, and though he had broken that promise once, that was no reason to do it again. Raven would not be a simple soldier to Erik. Oh no, he valued he too much, and more than that, he respected her. Raven...Mystique would be sent to use her powers in any number of ways, for every general needs spies and advisors. And Mystique would do so, happily, and Erik would have his Bishop.

Emma Frost. The CIA had sent agents to watch his ancestral home, looking for any sign that the mutants-his X-Men-might be hiding there. He had easily altered their minds and sent them on their way, reporting only a derelict estate that was completely uninhabited. He had managed to pick out a rather disturbing piece of information from their memories, however. Emma Frost, the diamond-skinned telepath, or "Sparkley Dame" as Director McCone had so crassly put it, had escaped. Or more accurately, she had been broken out. When Charles had been in control of Shaw's mind, he learned that the despicable man had called Frost his "White Queen". Strangely ironic, then, that she now served the same role for Erik.

And finally, Erik himself. Unquestionably the King. But unlike his chess counterpart, Erik would not hide and cower from the fight. No, Erik would lead from the front. He would stare down his enemies and crush them. He would make certain that the last thing his enemies ever saw would be the looks of terror on their own faces, reflected in that awful helmet he now wore like a crown.

Charles sighed, and shifted his gaze to the white pieces. He saw nothing but carved wood. His X-Men were not tokens in a game, to be moved around with cold calculation. But would that be a help or a hindrance? He didn't know.

All Charles could do was wait. His friend, his foe, would make his move when he was ready, and it would not be rash or futile. It would rock the foundations of the human world. And Charles would stand against him, to protect the humans, even as they plotted against him and his fellow mutants.

But until that time, until Erik..._Magneto_ chose to move his pieces, Charles..._Professor X_ would wait.


End file.
